


White Winter Hymnal

by thorsodinsn



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Multi-Era, One Shot Collection, Platonic Relationships, Romantic Fluff, Winter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-10 10:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12910104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorsodinsn/pseuds/thorsodinsn
Summary: Twenty-five days, Twenty-five drabbles. One snapshot of life with the Avengers per day until Christmas. Winter-related, some holiday-related. Varying ships, both platonic and romantic. Varying settings and time periods. Day One: Let Me Come Home, Steve/Bucky. Day Two: Learn to Let Go, Steve/Tony/Bruce. Day Three: Winter Passing, Thor & Loki. Day Four: Winter Passing Part 2, Thor & Loki. Day Five: Finding You, Loki/Wanda.





	1. Let Me Come Home

**Author's Note:**

> DAY ONE: In which Bucky starts to forget what home feels like, and Steve is there to remind him.

The cold comes quickly.

Frost clings to the windows; the floor tiles send chills up Bucky’s legs as he walks, barefooted, through the kitchen. The heat kicked on overnight – temperature controls set up long before Bucky arrived, a common comfort for the others still sleeping soundly as the sun spreads watercolor purples and pinks across the sky.

The frigid air seeps through the thin fabric of his shirt. It settles somewhere in his chest, slips into the pit of Bucky’s stomach. He thinks about making coffee; drinking something warm to chase the chill away. Even reaches for the pot, only to switch to a water glass at the last second.

He’s not sure that he likes it, but Bucky cannot deny the intimate familiarity he feels as winter wraps its icy hands around the compound. Winds whistle at the walls. Down the hall, a light turns on. Soft voices drift into the room and Bucky’s heart hammers in his chest. Suddenly, he feels out of place. Without an escape, he turns his eyes down, runs a finger nervously over the rim of his glass as sneakers hit tile and the voices fell away.

Steve and Sam stand in the doorway, both bundled in sweatshirts. Sam’s earbuds hang out from his neckline and Steve’s shoes squeak against the floor. Bucky glances at them, grunts a greeting, then turns away. He busies himself with brewing coffee he’s still not sure he’ll drink.

“You go,” Steve says to Sam, nudging his elbow. “I’ll catch up.

“Yeah,” Sam sighs. “Yeah, you’ll catch up. I’ll see you on my left, then.”

A joke, something between them, something that gets the corners of Steve’s mouth turning up. Something that Bucky is not a part of because he spent so long wrapped up in the cold. The same kind of cold pressing on the windows and spread over the tiled floor. He can feel Steve’s eyes on the back of his neck. Tries to shrug him off, but can’t quite shake him.

“Go ahead,” Steve repeats. Sam claps him on the shoulder and vanishes down another long hallway. A door slides open. A rush of cool air races inside before it closes again, sealing the warmth in and the cold out. The airs on Bucky’s neck stand up. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the cold, or because Steve is walking toward him. “Hey,” Steve says, softly.

“Hi,” Bucky mumbles. Steve stands beside him. Hesitates, then rests a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Warm. Like sunrises and summer nights. Bucky fights not to jerk away. It’s been so long since he’s been touched with warmth, with the kind of gentle softness Steve never quite lost. Even with the added bulk, the years lost, he still has that touch. Steve squeezes, then drops his hand, and in an instant Bucky wants that warmth back. He turns to Steve.

“We didn’t wake you, did we?”

“I was awake,” Bucky says.

He’s still holding a bag of coffee grounds he doesn’t want. Steve glances at it, but makes no comment. Instead, he asks, “Would you want to come with us?”

“What?” Bucky says.

“Just running,” Steve shrugs. “I know it’s cold, but-“

“I’m used to the cold,” Bucky says evenly.

“Yeah,” Steve says. There’s a sadness in his eyes that Bucky wishes he could wipe away. A sadness Bucky knows too well; a sadness they’re both too young carry, or perhaps too old to keep. Silence stretches between them, and then it’s Bucky’s turn to smile.

“You keep up with the young’ns, do you?” he teases. Steve’s flicker, sad to confused, confused to amused. He huffs a soft laugh and shakes his head, wagging one finger warningly at Bucky.

“Watch it,” he arms, bumping Bucky’s arm with his own. Bucky laughs, too, and for a moment it’s almost like they’re just two kids again. Like the last fifty years were nothing more than restless nights and bad dreams. When it starts to fade, Bucky fights to keep it. He nudges Steve back, just enough to squeeze one last breath of laughter from his lungs.

“I’ll meet you outside then,” Bucky says, and Steve’s eyes light up- something like happy, or maybe relieved.

He claps Bucky on the back and says, “Good.” before turning down the same hall Sam had vanished down just minutes ago.

“You’ll need me anyway,” Bucky calls to Steve’s retreating back. “In case you break a hip or something.”

“Jerk!” Steve calls over his shoulder.

“Punk!” Bucky calls back. And despite the cold in the air, the winds against the wall, he feels warmer somehow. Because maybe the cold isn’t home. Maybe the cold won’t always feel that way.


	2. Learn to Let Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twenty-five days, Twenty-five drabbles. One snapshot of life with the Avengers per day until Christmas. Winter-related, some holiday-related. Varying ships, both platonic and romantic. Varying settings and time periods. Day Two: Learn to Let Go, Steve/Tony/Bruce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Two: In which Tony refuses to admit he's concussed, and also there's some snow.

Winds whistle outside as the quinjet races higher and higher, plunging straight into the soft belly of the gathering clouds. The air inside is punctuated with heavy breaths. Warm air pumps through vents to thaw the chill seeped into everyone’s bones.

“ETA?” Steve asks, on arm resting on the wall as he leans into the cockpit.

“Ninety minutes,” Tony says. “Give or take. Get comfy.”

Tony drums his fingers against the dashboard in a beat that sounds familiar but that Steve can’t quite place. He pushes away from the console. From the co-pilots seat, Bruce swivels to watch him stand- and watch him trip, almost fall. Steve is quick to catch him, one arm jutting out as Tony stumbles toward him. Bruce hovers in his seat, ready to jump up. He glances past Tony and Steve, sees all eyes on Tony. Natasha is standing up but Bruce shakes his head and, after a moment, she sits back down. Her gaze lingers a few seconds longer before she turns back to Thor, diving deep into a conversation neither seems too invested in. Thor can’t keep his eyes from slipping toward the small group gathered at the front of the jet. The only one oblivious is Clint, who rests with his head against Natasha’s thigh, snoring.

“Hey,” Steve says softly. Tony scrambles away, his sneakered feet slipping against the floor. Steve’s hand hovers over but does not quite touch Tony’s arm.

“Tony,” Bruce says, cautious, one hand reaching over the arm rest to catch Tony should he teeter backwards. He can see blood drying on Tony’s temple; a bruise blossoming below his neck. When Tony looks at him the swelling around his eyes has built.

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezes his eyes shut. Sucks in a sharp breath. Steve and Bruce both open their mouths to speak but Tony holds out a hand to stop them.

“Fine,” he says, splaying his hand open. “I’m fine.”

“Tony,” Steve says, but Tony points a finger at him at shakes his head.

“Nope,” he declares. He crosses his ankles and lets himself fall back into his chair. The thud of the movement grabs Natasha’s attention. Thor’s, too. Clint, for his part, snorts and raises his head, bleary eyes fighting to focus. Bruce holds up a hand to them, waving them back to their stations.

“You probably have a concussion, you know,” Bruce says as he turns back to Tony. “You should let me take the controls-…”

“Is that the brain-rattling feeling?” Tony says, cutting Bruce off, tossing up a defensive shield of sarcasm; though the weakness in his voice drowns its would-be stinging effects. “It’s fine,” he insists, swiveling his chair to face the windshield. Steve and Bruce share a glance behind his back. “Look at that,” Tony says before either of them can say anything, do anything. They each follow Tony’s gaze out the long, wide window, where a thin layer of frost is beginning to gather on the glass. “We’ve got snow.”

Flakes perch and then vanish, coating the quinjet and melting before it can do real harm. One corner of Tony’s mouth lifts in the tiniest of half-smiles. He leans back against his seat, content to watch the snow dust over the window and fade away in a slow, easy, succession. His hands fall away from the controls, allowing Bruce a chance to step in. Steve squeezes Tony’s shoulder before turning away to settle down with the others.

By the time they land on a white-dusted landing pad, Tony is fast asleep.


	3. Winter Passing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twenty-five days, Twenty-five drabbles. One snapshot of life with the Avengers per day until Christmas. Winter-related, some holiday-related. Varying ships, both platonic and romantic. Varying settings and time periods. Day Three: Winter Passing, Thor & Loki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Three: In which young Thor and Loki play in the snow, and Loki practices his magic.

They were only children, then. Young hearts gone aflutter at the sight of the first frost. Raced outside before mothering hands could bundle them. Frigga stood in the open doorway, a smile on her face despite her exasperation. Two young boys, youth to be reckoned with- diving into soft hills of snow, their laughter on the wind, their coats still hanging limp in her hands. She folded the fabric and set it down, resolved to win that battle another day.

Thor’s hands turned pink as he balled the snow between them. He hit Loki square between the shoulders, the snow dusting his back. Thor laughed as Loki spun around, his revenge already heavy in his hands. He raised both arms above his head and launched his own snowball, hitting his brother in the face. Thor stilled. Then he reached down, gathered as much powdery snow as he could, packed it together. Hurled it back at Loki, who dove behind a large mound for cover.

And on and on they went.

Loki used charms, weak ones, still unrefined, to build walls around himself and Thor launched snowballs that knocked them down. The sun’s golden rays sparked off the snow, growing longer and longer as the afternoon dragged on. And then the gold turned the shadows, and the sky turned pink- then purple.

As the colors continued to fade, the prices grew tired. Stopped tossing snow back and forth.

Thor, eventually, collapsed onto the ground. Across the lawn, Loki magicked ice into sculptures. Ravens, stacks of books, snakes with snowy diamonds across their backs, all while Thor tilted back his head and watched his breath fog up in the air.

When Loki turned, he saw his brother’s skin red from the cold. With his brow furrowed he rose from his cross-legged seat and marched toward Thor; Loki found Thor’s eyes closed when he stood over him. Loki waited for them to open, shiny blue in the growing dark.

“You’re cold,” Loki said simply. When Thor nodded, Loki sat and took hold of his shoulders. He bit his lip, his forehead creased on concentration as he gathered heat inside him, forced in into his hands, pressed from his palms into Thor. Thor’s skin turned from red to pink, from pink back to white. Loki’s hands fell away and Thor pushed himself upright to sit beside his brother.

 “How’d you learn that?” Thor asked.

“Taught myself,” Loki said, bony shoulders shrugging. “Figured it out.”

“What else can you do?” Thor asked. Excitement in his voice, in his eyes. Wonder and fascination, even admiration as Loki smiled softly and touched the snow. A spark of blue shot from his fingertips. The snow melted in a circle, pooled into shallow pond; a little fish swam round and round at the bottom, but when Thor tried to dip his fingers in the water the image flickered and gave way to the snow. A pink blush rose in Loki’s cheeks.

“I’m not very good yet,” he said.

But Thor shook his head and said, “I think you’re brilliant.”


	4. Winter Passing, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twenty-five days, Twenty-five drabbles. One snapshot of life with the Avengers per day until Christmas. Winter-related, some holiday-related. Varying ships, both platonic and romantic. Varying settings and time periods. Day Four: Winter Passing, Part 2, Thor & Loki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Four: In which Loki heals Thor's wounds.

Probation.

The word is tossed in his face a good thousand times per day- by Stark, by the Captain; the Widow, too. The Hawk won’t speak to him, and Bruce has yet to fade from green. Hulk, though, seems to agree with his smaller companions, although he doesn’t quite get the syllables right and instead tells Loki he is on _prohation_. It almost sounds like a pun; Loki almost wants to laugh.

There are new members, too, and they’ve all heard the stories. They don’t speak to him directly. Only the Vision ever bothers to look at him, with curiosity sometimes; disdain others.

And so it stands: Loki is on probation. Stuffed into a high-security block of the compound. Security camera bulbs curving out of the ceiling; tracking him, watching him, endlessly. Constantly scrutinized. A microbe beneath a microscope, poked at, trapped under endless observation. Because saving his own planet (or people, to be technical) did not absolve him on this one.

Thor does nothing to stop it. Insists Loki prove himself; believes he must atone.

He’s told his story, of course. Of how Loki arrived a savior; fought beside his brother, _for_ his brother. Yet, Loki is not yet allowed to fight. Not while on probation. Instead, he wears silver bands around his wrists and is left inside quinjets and cars (“We’ll crack a window for you, princess,” Tony teases, as if it’s all somehow a grand old joke). They don’t trust him, even when he can help. More than once he asks how he’s meant to prove his worth when all his worth is shackled and locked away while all the others fight, and more than once he’s told he needs to earn trust first. And he scoffs. And Thor tells him to be patient, and Loki scoffs again. Thor begs him to wait, to allow him to speak on Loki’s behalf, and Loki says nothing, because he knows it will do him no good.

And so he sits, resigned to his probation, with the Widow as his keeper. (Not because she had volunteered. No, she had been benched due to injury, forced to sit out for her own safety – and, therefore, forced to watch the one they kept away for everyone’s safety.)

They sat on opposite sides of the jet, Natasha standing at the windshield with her arms folded, Loki watching quietly from a distance. Snow falls outside, dusting a battlefield ripe with explosions: repulsor blasts, exploding arrows, a violent crash of lightning. Thor flits past the window, blue current snaked about his arms, across his chest.

And then the ground shakes.  Shakes so violently it throws Natasha sideways and sends Loki on his hands and knees. As he rights himself Natasha runs toward the door, tapping codes into the keypad until the loading ramp sighs open. After a glance outside, Loki follows. Because Thor is sprawled out on the ground, ash across his skin, temple split open, bleeding.

Natasha arrives first, ready to pull Thor to safety, but Loki drops to his knees beside his brother.

“Loki,” Natasha says; firm, dangerous. She hovers over Thor with her hands beneath his arms, prepared to lift him, or at least drag him back to the quinjet. Loki’s fingers ghost over the wound on Thor’s head – deeper than he thought, slit from his hairline down to his jaw. Bruises blossom over his arms. The snow keeps falling. Thor’s skin turns pink, and then red.

“Take these off,” Loki says. He thrusts his arms toward Natasha, silver bindings glinting around his wrists. Natasha looks at them, and then meets Loki’s eyes. Before she can say anything Loki insists, “Now.” She looks down at Thor, then sighs.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she warns before pressing her thumb against the inside of one cuff. They both unlatch, and Loki throws them to the ground.

Natasha kneels on the ground, watching carefully as Loki presses one palm hard against Thor’s head. His thumb pets soothing strokes over Thor’s jaw as he gathers all the energy he can muster, forces it into Thor, wills the bleeding to stop, the bruise to close. Beads of sweat prick his brow as Thor’s bruises turn from black to purple, then to gray and ending in yellows so dull they might match his skin if it weren’t red from the cold.

Thor stirs beneath his brother’s hand, each slight movement making Natasha tense. Her hands hover, unsure if she should touch him. Loki nods his permission and Natasha lets a hand fall on Thor’s shoulder. Thor makes a small sound, something like a growl at the back of his throat. His eyes open to slits. Snowflakes catch on his lashes. He finds Loki’s face, brow creased in confusion. His breath puffs like tiny ghosts on the cold air.

Loki shushes him, and quietly tells him, “You’re cold.”

Thor smiles just slightly. He nods, and Loki slides his hand to Thor’s shoulder. He squeezes hard, forcing warmth from his body and into Thor’s, refusing to relent until Thor’s skin goes from red to pink and back to white.

Loki’s grip loosens then, and Thor reaches one hand up to cover his brother’s. His eyes slip shut; his lips are still turned up in a small, soft smile. Relief and exhaustion wash over Loki in such a fast and heavy wave he sags forward, his forehead coming to rest against Thor’s.

“Still brilliant,” Thor mumbles, voice so low Loki wonders if Natasha can hear. He finds he doesn’t care. He smiles, too, and even laughs.

“I know.”


	5. Finding You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twenty-five days, Twenty-five drabbles. One snapshot of life with the Avengers per day until Christmas. Winter-related, some holiday-related. Varying ships, both platonic and romantic. Varying settings and time periods. Day Five: Finding You, Loki/Wanda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DAY FIVE: In which Loki has some nightmares, and Wanda tries to help.

It happens at night.

Restless energy, raw and untamed, seeping through the walls. Desperation, fear, a frantic heart and tireless mind. For three straight nights, Wanda jolts awake. Tosses and turns as she tries, in vein, to block it all out.

It’s louder than she’s ever heard. On the fourth night, she lets it come. All that unruly emotion washes over her like a wave and, for a moment, she thinks she might drown. She hears sounds she can’t place, alien and strange, and they’re louder – louder than anything she’s ever heard before, punctuated only by ragged breath and soft pleas for relief.

In the morning, when Loki makes his way into the kitchen, his eyes are swollen and dark. He moves without seeing; mechanic, going through the motions, but waving off any worry when his brother asks about his night. Thor knows better than to pester. He claps Loki on the back, a gesture of sympathy or solidarity or both, and allows Loki to wander off with a cup of tea, back to the solitude he has enjoyed (or suffered through, or merely tolerated, Wanda truly cannot tell which) since his arrival. No one seems to bother with him much, save for his brother, leaving him largely on his own in a world quite shaken by his presence. The news has taken notice, as the news often does. For all of Thor’s efforts to shield Loki, it’s hard to hide a god. With Loki’s reputation, he could not slip easily under the radar. For two weeks, every local broadcast replayed clips of his last visit. Politicians and celebrities alike debated the implications of Loki’s return. Networks and publications and student-run blogs have all reached out to the Avengers for comment. So far, all requests have been turned down or ignored.

The fifth night finds Wanda following a tide of agitated anxiety down the hall.

Loki’s door is ajar, though just slightly. A soft blue light glows in the upper corner of the room; a camera meant to keep an eye on their “Unexpected homicidal houseguest,” as Stark had put it. Temporary, Stark had promised Thor, though Wanda wonders if that had been the truth.

Beyond the door, Loki lay on his back with a thin blanket tangled about his legs. Even in the dark Wanda can see the shine of sweat across his brow. His hands twitch – clenching into fists, then unfurling, grasping the sheets. His mouth moves, though no sound comes out.

All the noise is in his head.

Wanda nudges the door open. The squeak of the hinges brings a hitch to Loki’s breath. He curls onto his side, away from the door, arms around his middle like he’s protecting himself. Afraid. That alien noise returns, rattling through his mind until it’s all Wanda can hear. As it builds, Loki folds further inward, an attempt to escape. His lips are still moving. Begging. Wanda can hear him, if only in his head. Voice strained by fear. Uncertainty. She can feel his hope slipping through his fingers with every breath.

Carefully, Wanda lowers herself onto the edge of the bed. Loki flinches, but does not wake. Her eyes flit to the blue light of the camera before she rests her fingertips to his temple. Closes her eyes. Lets his nightmare become hers, too.

The land is barren but for rocks set in jagged formations. Sharp edges jut toward the sky. It’s hot, even in the dark of the night. Hot like the breath on her shoulder. She can’t hear the words, not through all the chatter. There are others around her, gathered in a wide circle, beating fists against the ground and howling at the sky. She feels tired. She feels afraid. There is a shadow behind her, and the shadow becomes a body, and the body is tall and hissing in her ear and the noises keep building, and building; morphing together in a haunted cacophony she can’t shut off. A hand reaches for her, grabs her wrist –

and the bedrock gives way to bedsheets. Her heart is in her throat and she fights to catch her breath. Loki’s hand, hot and clammy, is clasped tight around her wrist. His eyes glisten green in the dark. He’s breathing heavy, too, and his back is straight and rigid. Wanda cannot tell if he is angry or scared, but he won’t let her go and she can’t find her words, so together they sit, staring at one another, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

“Do not,” Loki starts, and though his words threaten his tone is tired, “let yourself into my head.” He squeezes Wanda’s wrist before letting her go, and she has to fight to keep control. Loki is bristling, but he is still fearful. She doesn’t need to read him to know that.

“What is that place?” she asks.

“Forget it,” he says.

“You haven’t.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. The baseboards rattle, heat rolling out in waves. The sudden rush makes Wanda acutely aware of the sheen on Loki’s face, perspiration continuing to prick his fair skin. She looks to the window, where snow and ice from yesterday’s fall is still stuck to the glass.

“It’s too hot for you,” Wanda says, both of the room and of the place in his dream. She crosses the room and pushes the window open. An icy rush of cold air whips into the room. It makes goosebumps on Wanda’s skin, but Loki appears unfazed. Relieved, even. Wanda lingers by the window. Winter races inside, filling up the room. She looks to Loki, who watches her cautiously from the bed. “I can stay,” she offers softly. “If you want company.”

“No,” Loki says a bit too quickly. He catches himself, and adds, “Thank you.”

“Well,” Wanda says, gaze dropping to the floor before handing back on his. “You know where to find me.”

“Yes,” Loki agrees. “I suppose I do.”


End file.
